Someday - and that day may never come - I'll call upon you to do a service for me.

I finished The House with a Clock in its Walls, by John Bellairs, yesterday at the coffee shop. I had gone for a refreshing walk in the pouring rain which I then cancelled out by snarfing down a grilled turkey panini, salad, cheese croissant, and a latte. I love the Edward Gorey illustrations – I am a huge Gorey fan. Last year I read his biography, Ascending Peculiarity, with all his books at hand to refer back to, and had a grand old time. THWACIIW had likeable, quirky characters, but not a whole heck of a lot of plot.

I also wrapped up Everybody into the Pool which was not all that funny and felt fairly interchangeable with many of the same type books, like Ayun Halliday’s. I really just want someone to write a book telling how they have everything together, not how they are as much a mess as I am. I’m tired of empathizing, I want to aspire.

I started Cheryl Mendelson’s Work, Love, Children. Yawn. But – ack! It’s on Nancy Pearl’s list of best fiction of 2005. And I had been following her Rule of 50: "If you still don't like a book after slogging through the first 50 pages, set it aside. If you're more than 50 years old, subtract your age from 100 and only grant it that many pages." But now maybe I need to keep slogging. Meanwhile, on my lunch, I began Alison Lurie’s Truth or Consequences. I am enjoying the deliberate and delicate character development. I picked up this book because its premise is the exploration of the chaos wrought on a relationship by illness, in this case, a bad back. This is an issue H. and I discuss often. Between my migraines and his wracked-up back. I thought perhaps some light could be shed on the issues and how to deal with them, even though it is only a novel.

Last night I *started* Wolves of Willoughby Chase, with its insipid Jane Eyre-like beginning. Here’s what I say: Kill off the parents if you must, but don’t let them just hand over their children to known child abusers with nary a doubt or hesitation and trot off to the seaside. I couldn’t get past that. And the wolves kept making me think of the wolves in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula.” Why would you own a house with small children in an area with crazy wolves like this? “Hey, kids, we are leaving you with this malicious, sadistic governess, and while we’re at it, go play in the yard but watch out for the carnivorous wolves that live here! Tata! Be good! Mummy and Daddy love you!”

Hallelujah, glory hallelujah! David Mitchell has a new novel coming out in 2006. It is called Black Swan Green and is due out in May. Check this story in The Guardian for more releases to look forward to in the new year.

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My adorable co-worker just came out to say Happy New Year. Not only is she sweet and smart, she’s this tiny little slip of a woman who is wearing this glamorous, furry-trimmed plum-colored sweater, with beautiful wool pants that MIGHT be a size two and that are hanging just ever so slightly on her, and sleek pointy-toed high-heeled black boots. Her blonde hair is gorgeous, her make-up impeccable, her freaking nails are even done.
AND she has two children – 3 and 5. And I HATE her. I mean, I love her, but I hate her.

*I* am wearing a long black skirt - that I was also able to wear all through my pregnancies; a black-and-grey striped shirt I think of as my pirate shirt and that makes me look like a linebacker – of course, all my clothes make me look like a linebacker as I am built like one; black tights that are ripped - but at least the ripped part is under my skirt; and my I-thought-they-were-cute black shoes but now I feel like they are just frumpy. And I think they’re too big. Since I spend most of my life in running shoes which tend to need to be bigger, I now buy all my shoes that much bigger. I probably look like a bag lady, despite my best intentions and efforts. None of my blacks match. I blow-dried my hair this morning but it looks the same as it always does – stick straight, and boring. I tend to stuff it behind my ears to keep it out of my face. I like my ears to show. God knows why. My make-up? Moisturizer and lip balm. Oh wait, today was a dress-up day so I put on mascara. Even when I put on blush and what-have-you, I tend to touch my face a lot and run my fingers thru my hair, so nothing lasts. It’s not that I really want to fuss, but even if I did, I can’t maintain it.

Once, in a fit of femininity and skinniness (I was running four to six miles a day and down to size eight but who the hell has time for that now?), I bought some really slick business clothes and some fancy make-up. I was wearing this gorgeous black trouser suit with a nipped-in waist and some tasteful cleavage, high heels, and bright red lipstick. I had just had my hair cut and it was all bouncy and full. Some friends and I were downtown, heading to tea at the Westin William Penn, and we passed some construction-worker types on the street. I heard one of them say, “Look at the smile on that one!” and I realized he was talking about me.

Me, with my shiny, bouncy hair (that took half an hour to style and some hairspray and required constant touch-ups throughout the day and a strict ban on hands-running-through), and beautiful clothes (that were cat-hair and spit-up free since I did not have kids yet and had time to de-lint all the black clothes I own), and clickity-clackety sexy high heels (that hurt my used-to-running-shoes feet), and slick, deep red lipstick (that I had to constantly monitor and/or reapply because otherwise I ate it off or it wound up on my teeth) and oh my god, it was just too much trouble to maintain that image so within a few months I went back to my sensible loafers and lip balm and my usual frumpy, disheveled self. And every once in a great while, I will make a huge effort and get up early and blow-dry my hair and pick out a nice outfit and apply blush and foundation…and within an hour, I look JUST LIKE I ALWAYS DO. A frumpy, size-twelve, straight-haired, nail-bitten, glasses-wearing, sleep-deprived, 35-year-old woman. (With, to be fair, lovely nursing bosoms - that can’t really be put to their full advantage as I need easy access to them at all times for the babe. But at least for the moment they balance out my hips and butt.)

I do manage, most days, to at least *smell* good. See, I do have my strengths. I almost always smell good, because I am hopelessly addicted to yummy-smelling bath and skincare products, and French perfume. But oh some days I long to be glamorous and sleek and beautiful. Or at least beautifully maintained.

This morning Primo was wearing Batman Underoos and those nasty red sweatpants; Segundo was wearing red pants that are a size or two too large and an orange-and-blue-striped shirt, and the baby was clad in a beige “Give Peas a Chance” sleeper. The second half of the disastrous parental fashion equation was wearing bright green sweatpants, paired with a different-shade-of-green sweatshirt, white sweat socks, and tan slippers. So really, already, my poor children have no chance, sartorially speaking. Thank God I didn’t have girls.

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Snippets:

• My high score on Jewel Quest is 3 hundred and 49 thousand and change. I really need to get a life.
  
  
• Uncle C. got Primo Battleship for Christmas. Has a more boring game EVER been invented? I am tempted to start swallowing the little red and white pegs myself, before the baby can get his hands on them, just so I never have to play it again.
  
  
• Has everyone here seen “The Godfather”? It has recently come to my attention that there are people alive who consider themselves relatively well-educated and worldly who have not. Scandal! And you can’t just watch it once, my friends. The first time you will invariably say, or at least think, “What’s all the fuss?” But upon the fourth or fifth viewing, its genius will become apparent. And you too will be converted. Go forth and view. And remember: “It’s not personal. It’s strictly business.”
  
  
• This linked story is the creation of a fellow librarian, which I thought was cute and perfect for the season. She gave me permission to share. Enjoy.